No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP (18 page)

Many questions that had plagued me as a result of my experiences with Native people were answered by these insightful people. I had always been mystified by the unwillingness of aboriginal people to want to change the behaviour of others. When problems were identified, whether it was a child’s truancy or substance abuse by a relative or neighbour, no one in the community would tackle the problem head on. The professors taught me about the ethic of non-interference. In many aboriginal cultures, the concept of telling someone else to modify an attitude or behaviour is foreign. They believe that an individual makes choices and is the sole master of his or her destiny, almost from birth. This helped to explain the reaction of aboriginal parents when confronted with a child who refused to attend school. They would respond by telling authorities their child had been reminded to attend school, but the child had decided otherwise. This was deemed sufficient by parents, and they would go no further to discipline their dependant with respect to the decision not to abide by the rules. Parents in a white society would tend to force their will upon the child, but the ethic of non-interference precluded a Native parent from taking more stern action. It was imperative to recognize and understand such cultural differences.

As these professionals gained exposure at the basic training level, requests came from field personnel seeking more information. Dr. Van Dyke was contracted to conduct cross-cultural seminars to experienced policemen in Alberta. The sessions were held at a military base near Edmonton. As everyone assembled for the first day of the course, one policeman approached the professor, asking permission to speak to the group before the session commenced. He informed his classmates there would be a liquor run for those wishing to enjoy a libation at day’s end. With that, the spokesman began to take orders, listing enough liquor to sink a battleship. With that task completed, the candidates took their seats, the lecturer was introduced and the session commenced. The course objectives were explained, and Dr. Van Dyke invited any and all questions. A seasoned veteran opened with, “Doctor, why do Indians drink so much?” The query seemed genuine, and the irony was apparently lost to all. It afforded Ted a natural opening to enlighten his students about the socialization of alcohol consumption. He explained that our prevailing North American culture is derived from societies that had been exposed to
spiritus fermenti
for thousands of years, and even so there are countless examples of addiction and abuse. The mainstream societal approach to consumption is very different from that of aboriginal peoples; when most non-Natives consume liquor, there is an attempt to disguise its effect. Everyone is familiar with the term “holding one’s liquor.” The more we can consume without demonstrating any effect, the more successful we are deemed to be. Aboriginal people’s approach to the drug is perhaps more honest, and this may be partially attributable to their brief history with alcohol. When they feel intoxication, they succumb to it. There is no effort to conceal the effect, and uninhibited behaviour is witnessed. This, coupled with their higher visibility as minorities, makes them much more conspicuous. The discriminatory legislation that existed under the Indian Act, which prevented them from possessing or consuming alcohol, no doubt exacerbated the effect. These clear, logical and concise analytical explanations changed my perspectives toward aboriginal people and alcohol, and I saw others who were similarly affected that day.

Across the USA during this period, the FBI was experiencing violent confrontations with Native peoples, particularly on their reserve lands. As federal officers, FBI members were responsible for policing Indian territory. Dr. Van Dyke was invited to speak to them in an effort to alleviate serious widening rifts. His work in the USA, though initially greeted with cynicism, greatly improved Native–police relations and reduced conflict.

My understanding of the issues facing First Nations people, particularly Native youth, was also shaped by the novels of Canadian author W.P. Kinsella, which I discovered while at the training division. Kinsella’s novels are tragicomedies about young people struggling to make sense of their lives as contemporary Natives. Although he is not Native himself, Kinsella bases his stories on his contact with First Nations youth who lived on the Hobbema reserve and frequented Wetaskiwin, Alberta. While it may sound frivolous, I learned more from Kinsella’s fictional characters than from all the academics. The novels are told from the point of view of young Natives on the outside of white society and eloquently describe the sometimes poignant and sometimes hilarious dilemmas they confront. I learned much through the characters’ attitudes and behaviour toward white society and gained empathy for the difficulties facing youth living on reserves and consequently on the edge of Canadian society.

Corporal Langenberger, who had taken university courses, suggested that I might consider doing so as well. His encouragement set me on the path to earning a bachelor of arts degree with majors in psychology and law. It was discouraging to watch Langenberger’s peers resist his efforts to professionalize policing. They would berate him at work and even insult him at social functions when his wife was present. Opposing instructors voiced their opinions in class, discrediting the human-relations curriculum. But Langenberger was indomitable. He simply kept his shoulder to the wheel, making progress despite the hoots of derision from his peers.

Inspector MacRae, respected and feared, learned of the conflict and met with the entire staff. He clearly outlined his position regarding human-relations training, stating that he was the one who had arranged for most of the university professors to lecture the recruits. He concluded by warning the entire instructional body that the next individual who offered unwarranted criticism of this program would be on his way out of the training division. The road became somewhat smoother following this meeting, but there was still an undercurrent of resentment. Years later, both Corporal Langenberger and then Superintendent MacRae would receive commissioner’s commendations for their efforts, a reward for their far-sightedness and perseverance. Many of Langenberger’s innovations still form the basis of human-relations and simulation training in the RCMP and police forces worldwide.

Many serving and former members shared an antipathy toward academia, and this was even evident within the Parsons family. One might expect that a father and son who worked in law enforcement for the same organization would have much in common. Such was not the case, particularly when I became involved in contemporary police training. My father’s tenure in the RCMP spanned an era when the Force discouraged any outside interference and disparaged academics as theorists with their heads in the clouds. Native policing had always been paternalistic, and Aboriginals were treated like children. Inviting university professors to Depot Division to speak to recruits was akin to heresy, while efforts to understand First Nations culture were deemed a waste of time. Over the years, I learned to avoid topics such as this in my father’s house, since our discussions would inevitably escalate into shouting matches. Even though my father was a compassionate policeman who always tried to do the right thing, like many of his peers he resisted change and felt threatened by the incursion of lay people into the sanctity of RCMP training.

AS THE SUMMER
of 1973 arrived, it was time for me to rotate back to the field. I hoped to return to Alberta, a province I knew and loved, preferably to command my own detachment. I naïvely believed that I might have some influence over my transfer. I travelled to Division Headquarters in Edmonton with that purpose in mind and contacted division staffing branch members, who told me I had been pencilled in as the commander of a small detachment in a farming community. Returning to Regina, I anxiously awaited notice of my transfer. Some weeks later, my connections in Alberta conveyed their regrets, informing me that the commanding officer had amended my posting. He felt that NCOs returning from the training division should not be given their own detachment at the expense of those who had remained in Alberta coping with day-to-day police work. I was to be the new operations NCO at Blackfoot Crossing, Alberta, the second-largest Native reserve in the province and a location fraught with social and law-enforcement problems. Most RCMP members dreaded the possibility of working in this community.

As disappointed as I was, the policy of the commanding officer seemed fair. While in the training division, I had been espousing more effective methods of aboriginal policing. The opportunity was at hand to apply the theory. To my chagrin, the larger-than-life detachment commander at my new location had a reputation as a “clean-up” man. A legend throughout the land, he was a prepossessing figure who delighted in physical combat. I was fearful that this would not be a match made in heaven, as our philosophies were bound to clash.

Blackfoot Crossing was a town of 400 serving a reserve of 4,000. It was a ramshackle, run-down settlement with bars on all the businesses’ windows. About the only thing that had never happened on Main Street was a gunfight—and that occurred while I was there. The RCMP building was one of the largest in town, with half of the structure comprising jail cells. As I entered for the first time, my perceived nemesis, Sergeant Lawrence “Larry” Sifton, towered over me and invited me into his office. He opened the conversation by describing serious problems on the reserve. Sergeant Sifton had also recently arrived, and he shared his intent to improve the health and welfare of residents rather than contribute to their miseries. As he outlined his ideas of personalized policing, I was reassured since they corresponded with everything I had hoped might be accomplished. We concluded our discussion, and Sergeant Sifton seemed very pleased, remarking that we had better get started.

Sergeant Sifton was the one of the most amazing people I would work with in the RCMP. He was extremely perceptive, very bright and completely knowledgeable about RCMP policy. There was never a bad day with this man. His one flaw, as I had so frequently encountered at previous detachments, was his fondness for alcohol. Even when drinking, he functioned at a high level, disguising any evidence of intoxication. His drinking was cyclic; as suddenly as he began, he would cease and not touch a drop for weeks. Although it never detracted from his duties, it was pervasive. Over time, it affected his marriage and other aspects of his life. He had the potential and the intellect to reach any level in a police organization, but the direction he chose no doubt imposed a ceiling on his upward mobility. He was a most unusual and charismatic human being, revered by the aboriginal people and loved by his men.

Armed with initiatives and objectives set by Sergeant Sifton, we began to develop our plan. In previous years, aggressive behaviour between reserve citizens and the detachment had been a problem, resulting in an unusually large number of charges laid of assaulting a peace officer, resisting arrest and obstruction of justice. The tribal police consisted of three members who worked closely with the detachment. We immediately established stronger ties with them through workshops on basic police procedures. Both the sergeant and I became members of the reserve recreation association. The sergeant founded a youth boxing club in which I assumed the role of fitness trainer. The club was an instant success with Native youth.

One of our young charges demonstrated great skill in the ring. Six feet tall and 18 years old, he was in prime condition. He was intimidating even when sparring, and few other youths were interested in engaging him in the “sweet science.” Sergeant Sifton opted to act as a punching bag for our young Muhammad Ali. As they sparred, Sifton encouraged the young man to strike, which he did with enthusiasm, soundly delivering jabs and crosses to his coach. As the sparring progressed, and just when the blows seemed to be too much for Sifton, the young man suddenly found himself lying on the floor in a daze. The counterpunch delivered by the coach was never seen by the victim or the spectators. Those of us witnessing the session came away with a new respect for our boss. He not only was a skilled boxer, but he also actually enjoyed being hit. Could there be a more lethal combination? Following the sparring session, the young man seemed to have developed empathy for his opponents. He became more restrained when training with his counterparts and showed more interest in developing his technique than annihilating his fellow boxing students.